


we make a good team

by outruntheavalanche



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: Advanced Baseball Stats, Building trust, Chocolate Box Exchange, Chocolate Box Exchange 2018, F/M, Male-Female Friendship, Slow Burn, Teamwork, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-15 08:48:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13609803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outruntheavalanche/pseuds/outruntheavalanche
Summary: The biggest problem with Livan is that—through no fault of his own—he isn’t Mike Lawson.





	we make a good team

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theladyscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyscribe/gifts).



> This kind of vaguely takes aspects of several of [](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/theladyscribe/profile)[**theladyscribe**](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/theladyscribe/)’s prompts and… mashes them together in one giant blob.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, [](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/theladyscribe/profile)[**theladyscribe**](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/theladyscribe/)!
> 
> Thanks to [](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/blastellanos/profile)[**blastellanos**](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/blastellanos/) for looking this over.
> 
> Title from "Must Have Done Something Right," by Relient K.

Runners on first and third, only one out, and Houston’s RBI man’s striding to the plate. He’s three-for-four off Ginny tonight and—entirely coincidentally—she feels a droplet of sweat trickle down the back of her neck, into the collar of her jersey. She rolls her shoulders, scowls, and leans in, glove resting across her knee.

 Livan drops down a pitch and location amidst a set of signs that don’t mean much of anything at all.

 Ginny shakes her head and spins her finger, motioning for him to go through the signs again. Livan throws down the same set of signs, only with a little more emphasis and a clenched jaw.

Ginny shakes her head again.

She can see Livan gritting his teeth behind his mask, then he gets up out of his crouch and pushes his mask up off his face. He turns, saying something to the ump, and then he makes the long trek out to the pitcher’s mound.

Ginny steps off the rubber and swipes a hand across her drenched forehead.

Texas in July. Ginny _hates_ Texas in July.

“Stop shaking me off,” Livan says, tucking his glove under his arm.

Robles and Melky start trotting in like they think they’re gonna get in on the conversation but one stern look from Livan sends them scattering back to their positions on the infield.

Ginny frowns. “Gurriel’s got two ribbies off me already,” she points out, as she lifts her glove over her mouth. “I wanna work around him. Pitch to McCann.”

“Loading the bases for McCann. Brilliant. _Great_ idea,” Livan snipes at her, shoving his glove back onto his hand. “Bet you never gave _Lawson_ this kinda lip.”

Ginny bristles at the mention of Lawson. Like she and Lawson hadn’t had their battles over the years. Like she didn’t give it even worse to Lawson than Livan’s getting right now. Livan should consider himself lucky, honestly.

“Get back behind the plate and just catch my pitches.” She lowers her glove and waggles her fingers at him.

Livan narrows his eyes at her, his mouth tightening, but he turns and marches back to home, where the ump is dusting the plate off with his little brush.

After Livan gives the signal, Gurriel trots to first base and McCann steps in. He leans on his bat as he adjusts his batting gloves and nods at Livan, says something that gets Livan smiling.

Ginny frowns and toes at the dirt.

Livan puts down the signs—outside corner, down and away—and Ginny rocks back, delivers the pitch.

Her fastball leaks back over the plate and McCann turns on it, eyes lighting up like a pinball machine. He connects with the sweet spot and drives the pitch up, up, up.

Ginny whirls around and watches it sail out into the Crawford Boxes. Even McCann can hit them to left field in this park. 

Fireworks explode and those damn train whistles start blasting and Ginny wishes she had earplugs.

She lifts her glove and spits curses into it. She’s been doing that a lot tonight.

When she turns back toward home plate, Livan’s got his mask off again. Just standing there in front of the ump, looking out at her with this look on his face that boils her blood.

She turns her back on him, gnaws on the laces of her glove and watches the Astros’ fat catcher hobble around the bases.

***

Ginny grabs a bottled water out of the mini-fridge in the players’ lounge and rips the cap off, chugs angrily and then slams the bottle on the Formica counter.

There’s a rapping on the doorframe and Ginny looks up. Livan nods his head at her and shuffles into the lounge. He opens the mini-fridge and pulls out a brightly colored bottle of Gatorade.

“What’s eating you?” Livan uncaps his Gatorade and takes a sip.

“ _You_ ,” Ginny snipes, rolling her eyes. She crosses her arms over her chest. “Lawson didn’t give me the amount of shit you give me.”

“Is my job,” Livan says. He leans back against the counter and bumps his shoulder against Ginny’s. “Wouldn’t be doing my job if I just let you off easy. Would I?”

“You saying Lawson let me off easy?” Ginny challenges him, tipping her chin up and narrowing her eyes.

Livan just grins at her and goes back to the fridge. He flicks it open, sets the recapped bottle back inside and knocks the door shut with his hip. He looks over his shoulder at Ginny.

“I’m saying maybe you wouldn’t have an ERA in the fours if you listened to me more.”

Ginny rolls her eyes and unfolds her arms, letting them flop against her sides. “ERA’s an overrated stat,” she grumbles.

Livan cackles, delighted. “Oh, you gonna tell me you look at Fangraphs next?” he teases, prodding her in the side with his elbow. “That’s nerd stuff.”

Ginny pushes his arm away and huffs, petulantly. “That _nerd_ stuff’s more useful than you think,” she says, rolling her eyes at Livan. “I’m underperforming my FIP by—”

“Your what?” Livan asks, raising his eyebrows at Ginny like she’s suddenly sprouted a second head. “Your _fip_? The fuck is that?”

“I was getting to that,” Ginny snaps. “ _Fielding independent pitching_. It’s this stat that takes bad luck and bad defense into account.”

Livan frowns a little, his brow creasing. “You saying I ain’t a good defender?”

“No! I’m just saying… It’s not perfect, but it’s a better indicator of a pitcher’s performance than ERA,” Ginny says.

“How you get started on this _nerd_ stuff?” Livan asks.

“Mike did,” she says, shrugging.

“Mike’s as old school as they come,” Livan muses.

“He warmed up to it eventually,” Ginny says, tugging on Livan’s sleeve. “He showed me these websites and blogs and stuff.”

“So how’s this _fielding independent pitching_ help you right now?” Livan asks. “Is just numbers on a computer screen, far as I’m concerned.”

“Well, it doesn’t. Not really. But it means I might just be snakebit right now and eventually the luck’ll even out,” Ginny says. “Maybe.”

“Well, my job’s to guide you where you gotta go,” Livan says, resting a hand on Ginny’s shoulder and squeezing. “If this stats stuff helps, great. But you gotta put the work in.”

“I am,” Ginny says.

Livan flashes a grin at her—blinding white teeth, dimples grooving into his cheeks—and slips his hand off her shoulder. “Let’s go get some work in then. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Ginny pushes away from the counter and follows Livan out. After they grab their gloves and Livan gets his gear out of his locker, they head out for the bullpens.

***

The biggest problem with Livan is that—through no fault of his own—he isn’t Mike Lawson.

Ginny and Lawson had worked together like a well-oiled machine for two years before he retired at the end of her sophomore season. Livan had already assumed the coveted mantle of starting catcher, but Lawson had been Ginny’s personal catcher.

It’s been an… adjustment.

Ginny and Livan put the work in, though, and they’re more in sync than ever before.

It’s not perfect but they’re working on it.

Lawson stops by the clubhouse before the first game of a series against the Dodgers. He’s in the front office now, with a cushy job— _special assistant to the General Manager_ —and an office adjacent to Oscar Arguella’s.

“Old man,” Ginny calls out when he pokes his head into her little sanctuary. “Long time, no see.”

Ginny gets out of her chair and greets him with a hug, digging her chin into his shoulder. Lawson grins at her and knocks her cap off her head. Ginny scowls and retrieves it, fitting it back over her curls.

“Came to see how you were doing,” he says, leaning against the wall and shoving his hands in his pockets. “You and Livan…”

“What about me and Livan?” Ginny asks, when he trails off rather than complete the sentence. She sits back in her chair and invites Lawson to pull up a seat next to her, which he does.

“You’re not on the same page,” Lawson says.

“I don’t think psychoanalyzing the player personnel really falls under the job description of the _special assistant to the General Manager_ ,” Ginny says.

Lawson snorts. “It’s just some words on a brass nameplate,” he says, waving a hand dismissively before raking it through his thick beard.

Ginny notices the wedding band on his ring finger and wonders if it’s Rachel or Amelia, or someone else. Someone she doesn’t know. They haven’t kept in touch as much as Ginny would have liked since he hung up his cleats.

“So, tell me more about this theory of yours.” Ginny reclines in her leather chair and puts her feet up on Lawson’s knee.

“Not your footstool, rookie,” he grumbles, knocking her feet away

Ginny laughs. “And I’m not a rookie anymore.”

“Anyway,” Lawson says. “I’ve noticed you guys haven’t really been in sync since the start of the season.”

“It’s gotten better,” she says, shrugging.

“Yeah?” Lawson asks.

“Yeah. I got him to look up FIP and BABIP and—”

“You got him to go on a stats site?” Lawson’s eyebrows crawl up his creased forehead like caterpillars.

“Yeah. He thinks most of them are pretty useless,” she says, rolling her eyes. “He says BABIP’s dumb because he doesn’t believe in chance or luck.”

Lawson laughs and pats Ginny on her knee. “Well, at least you got Livan to—”

“Got Livan to _what_?” Livan leans in the doorway of Ginny’s dressing room and knocks on the doorframe.

Lawson gets up and they greet each other with an overly complicated bro-hug routine, before Lawson says his goodbyes and goes off to visit with some of their teammates.

“What’s up?” Ginny sits up and nudges the other chair over to Livan.

He reaches into the messenger bag against his hip and pulls out a thin stack of papers. “Did some research on those nerd sites of yours,” Livan says, setting the paper in Ginny’s locker. He scowls at her. “Got sucked into the rabbit hole of catcher framing. I’m ranked dead last.”

Ginny glances at the print-outs resting on her locker shelf. “I think I’ve unleashed a monster.”

“Enough of this, you wanna get some lunch?” Livan asks, slouching in the chair and kicking his feet up. “Was thinking I could treat you to Cuban food. Havana Grill’s good.”

“A little taste of home?” Ginny asks, kicking off her sneakers and digging her toes into the nubby carpet.

“Yeah, exactly.” Livan beams at her, a flash of bright white teeth.

“Sounds good.” Ginny gets out of her chair and pulls a T-shirt off a hanger.

Livan slips out of her lockerroom and shuts the door quietly behind him.

***

Ginny’s relaxing in the hot tub when she hears the sound of shower shoes scraping on the tile. She turns her head and catches an eyeful of Livan lingering in the doorway, swaddled in a fuzzy white robe.

“What’s up?” Ginny motions for him to join her, which he does.

Livan drops the robe and dips his toes in the water, gingerly, before settling opposite Ginny. “Hey.”

“You all right?” Ginny asks, nodding at him.

“Usual aches and pains,” Livan says, rubbing at his arm and wincing.

“You tell the trainers?” Ginny asks.

Livan shrugs, aiming for nonchalant and dismissive and failing badly. “Nah, not a big deal. Who doesn’t have aches and pains?”

“You play hurt, you’re hurting more than just yourself. You’re hurting the team,” Ginny scolds.

Livan rolls his eyes. “Like you don’t play through shit.”

Ginny thins her lips and shoots him a glare that could peel paint. “Dirty pool.”

Livan laughs and settles back against the hot tub ledge. “Nothing you gotta worry about,” he says, in a tone meant to mollify her. “I promise I won’t make you look bad.”

“’Cause that’s my number one concern,” Ginny quips, sliding her gaze away from him.

Ginny flicks her eyes back onto Livan. She wants to look away for some reason, but she can’t.

Livan glances over at her and holds her gaze. “Just sayin’.”

“So’m I.”

Ginny moves closer until she can feel the heat his body’s giving off. She puts a hand out, rests it against his arm above the troublesome elbow.

Livan leans in and ducks his head, his lips brushing lightly over hers. Ginny feels one of his hands sliding into her wet hair, cupping the back of her head as he deepens the kiss.

When they finally separate, their eyes pinball away from one another’s. Ginny slides her hand away from Livan’s arm.

“That was probably inappropriate,” Ginny says, feeling the back of her neck prickle with heat.

“But I liked it,” Livan says. He reaches out, tipping Ginny’s chin back up so that their lips slide together again. He leaves his hand against her cheek.

Ginny curls a hand against his chest as she kisses back.

Livan leans back, grinning at her. “Teamwork.”

Ginny laughs and pushes at his chest. “ _Nerd_.” 

***

Ginny scrapes her cleats on the spike cleaner. She can hear Livan making his way out to the mound by the clacking of the plastic shin guards against his legs. She turns to face him.

“What?” Ginny asks, cocking her hip.

“Your front shoulder’s flying open.” Livan gestures to her shoulder with his glove. “Leaving everything up in the zone.”

Ginny can feel the urge to fight him on it bubbling up inside her and she opens her mouth to fire off a smart retort, but something stops her.

She frowns and starts chewing on the laces of her glove.

“Everything feels _off_ tonight,” Ginny says, lowering her glove.

Livan leans in and pokes her in the chest with his finger. “I got you, _mamí_. I’m gonna get you through this. You just gotta trust me.”

Ginny lifts her head and meets Livan’s eyes. They hold each other’s gaze for a few long seconds that makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

Ginny finally nods, slowly.

“I trust you.”

Livan beams at her and pats her on the shoulder with his mitt. “All right. Let’s go.”

He turns and heads back home.

Ginny toes at the rubber and turns the ball in her hand, her fingers finding the stitches.

Livan gets back in his crouch and puts down the signs.

Ginny nods and slides her fingers into place on the ball. She rocks back into her delivery and lunges forward, then falls off the mound. Watches the ball drop right into Livan’s waiting mitt.


End file.
